Synchronized Chaos October 2024: Fears and Aspirations

Painting of a mountain vista with tree-lined ridges shrouded in mist. Some bare trees in the foreground, others with leaves in the background.
Image c/o J.L. Field

Christopher Bernard will be reading at the Poets for Palestine SF Marathon Reading at San Francisco’s Bird and Beckett Bookstore. For a donation of any amount to the Middle East Children’s Alliance, a nonpartisan and nonpolitical organization helping all children in the region, poets can come and read at any time at the store on October 14th, Indigenous People’s Day. Please feel welcome to sign up here or email poetsforpalestinesf@gmail.com to be scheduled.

This month’s issue addresses our fears and aspirations: whether life will become what we dread, or what we hope.

Wazed Abdullah revels in the joy of the Bangladesh monsoon as Don Bormon celebrates flowers and wispy clouds in autumn. Maurizio Brancaleoni contributes bilingual haiku spotlighting days at the beach, insects, cats, and the rain. Brian Barbeito shares the experience of walking his dogs as summer turns to fall.

Soren Sorensen probes and stylizes sunsets in his photography series. Lan Qyqualla rhapsodizes about love, dreams, flowers, colors, poetry, and harp music. Ilhomova Mohichehra poetically welcomes autumn to her land.

John L. Waters reviews Brian Barbeito’s collection of poetry and photography Still Some Summer Wind Coming Through, pointing out how it showcases nature and the “subtle otherworldly” within seemingly ordinary scenes. Oz Hartwick finds a bit of the otherworldly within his ordinary vignettes as he shifts his perspective.

Spectral figure in a white ragged cloth standing in a forest clearing amid barred trees, illuminated by light.
Image c/o Circe Denyer

Kelly Moyer crafts stylized photographic closeups of ordinary scenes, rendering the familiar extraordinary. Ma Yongbo paints scenes where ordinary life becomes unreal, suffused with images associated with horror.

Sayani Mukherjee speaks of a bird’s sudden descent into a field of flowers and comments on our wildness beneath the surface. Jake Cosmos Aller illustrates physical attraction literally driving a person wild.

Mesfakus Salahin asserts that were the whole natural world to become silent, his love would continue. Mahbub Alam views life as a continual journey towards his beloved. Tuliyeva Sarvinoz writes tenderly of a mother and her young son and of the snow as a beloved preparing for her lover. Sevinch Tirkasheva speaks of young love and a connection that goes deeper than looks. llhomova Mohichehra offers up tender words for each of her family members. She also expresses a kind tribute to a classmate and friend.

Meanwhile, rather than describing tender loving affection, Mykyta Ryzhykh gets in your face with his pieces on war and physical and sexual abuse. His work speaks to the times when life seems to be an obscenity. Z.I. Mahmud looks at William Butler Yeats’ horror-esque poem The Second Coming through the lens of Yeats’ contemporary and tumultuous European political situation.

Alexander Kabishev’s next tale of life during the blockade of St. Petersburg horrifies with its domestic brutality. Almustapha Umar weeps with grief over the situations of others in his country.

Dark-skinned person with hands outstretched and cupped to show off an image of the world in natural colors for desert, forest, ocean.
Image c/o Omar Sahel

In a switch back to thoughts of hope, Lidia Popa speaks to the power of poetry and language to connect people across social divides. Hari Lamba asserts his vision for a more just and equal America with better care for climate and ecology. Perizyat Azerbayeva highlights drip irrigation as a method to tackle the global problem of a shortage of clean drinkable water. Eldorbek Xotamov explores roles for technology and artificial intelligence in education.

Elmaya Jabbarova expresses her hopes for compassion and peace in our world. Eva Petropoulou affirms that action, not mere pretty words, are needed to heal our world.

Ahmad Al-Khatat’s story illustrates the healing power of intimate love after the trauma of surviving war and displacement. Graciela Noemi Villaverde reflects on the healing calm of silence after war.

Meanwhile, Christopher Bernard showcases the inhumanity of modern warfare in a story that reads at first glance like a sci-fi dystopia. Daniel De Culla also calls out the absurdity of war and the grossness of humor in the face of brutality.

Pat Doyne probes the roots of anti-Haitian immigrant rumors in Springfield, Ohio and critiques fear-mongering. Jorabayeva Ezoza Otkir looks to nature for metaphors on the corrosive nature of hate.

Black and white photo of a line of soldiers carrying packs and rifles marching past a body of water.
Image c/o Jack Bro Jack Renald

On a personal level, Nosirova Gavhar dramatizes various human responses to loss and trauma. Kendall Snipper dramatizes an eating disorder ravaging a woman’s life and body.

Donna Dallas’ characters are lonely, bruised by life, and drawn to what’s not good for them: drugs, bad relationships, lovers who don’t share their dreams. J.J. Campbell evokes his miserable life situation with dark humor.

Meanwhile, Maja Milojkovic savors each moment as she creates her own happiness through a positive attitude. In the same vein, Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa celebrates the power of a free and self-confident mind and the joy of spending time with small children.

Tuliyeva Sarvinoz urges us to move forward toward our goals with faith and dedication. Numonjonova Shahnozakhon echoes that sentiment, encouraging perseverance and resilience. S. Afrose resolves to move forward in life with optimism and self-respect.

Michael Robinson reflects on the peace he finds in his continuing Christian walk. Federico Wardal reviews anthropologist Claudia Costa’s research into spiritual fasting practices among the Yawanawa tribe in Brazil.

Small mud house with a roof of stacked reeds and a wooden door. From Neolithic times near Stonehenge.
Image c/o Vera Kratochvil

Duane Vorhees explores questions of legacy, inheritance, and immortality, both seriously and with humor. Isabel Gomes de Diego highlights Spanish nature and culture with her photographic closeups of flowers, religious icons, and a drawing made as a gift for a child’s parents. Federico Wardal highlights the archaeological findings of Egyptologist Dr. Zahi Hawass and his upcoming return to San Francisco’s De Young Museum. Zarina Bo’riyeva describes the history and cultural value of Samarkand.

Sarvinoz Mansurova sends outlines from a conference she attended on Turkic-adjacent cultures, exploring her region as well as her own Uzbek culture.

Barchinoy Jumaboyeva describes her affection for her native Uzbekistan, viewing the country as a spiritual parent. Deepika Singh explores the mother-daughter relationship in India and universally through her dialogue poem.

David Sapp’s short story captures the feel of decades-ago Audrey Hepburn film Roman Holiday as it describes a dream meeting between lovers in Rome. Mickey Corrigan renders the escapades and tragedies of historical women writers into poetry.

Duane Vorhees draws a parallel between Whitman’s detractors and those who would criticize Jacques Fleury’s poetry collection You Are Enough: The Journey To Accepting Your Authentic Self for having a non-traditional style.

Faded sepia note paper with script writing, veined autumn red and orange leaves from birches or aspens made from paper in the right and left corners.
Image c/o Linnaea Mallette

This set of poems from Jacques Fleury expresses a sophisticated childlike whimsy. A few other pieces carry a sense of wry humor. Daniel De Culla relates a tale of inadvertently obtaining something useful through an email scam. Taylor Dibbert reflects on our escapes and “guilty pleasures.”

Noah Berlatsky reflects on both his progress as a poet and editors’ changing tastes. Sometimes it takes growing and maturing over time as a person to create more thoughtful craft.

Alan Catlin strips artworks down to their bare essential elements in his list poetry, drawing attention to main themes. Mark Young focuses on kernels of experience, on the core of what matters in the moment. J.D. Nelson captures sights, experiences, and thoughts into evocative monostich poems worthy of another reading.

Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ pictures get close up to everyday miracles: a beetle, car components, action figures, a boy in a dinosaur costume.

We hope that this issue, while being open about the worries we face, is also a source of everyday miracles and thought-provoking ideas. Enjoy!

Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh

warning

a storm warning

the butterflies in my stomach

announced the summer plan to intercept


continuous distance
hair fell on hair
the sky turns red as if it knows
everything in advance
my hair fell for
the first time on your comb
which you will never use again

Basement

Human is the basement of the toilet room

Tenement maze of history and stories


No animal in the world has ever died for its cage before

No animal has invented aerial bombs


To first Octobers number 


Suck my death

an unborn kitten is knocking at the church of a torn belly

the future flows like sperm from the wall of the gateway

my dead lover gets stuck in my throat where his cock used to hide during blowjob

I dream of having my throat fucked by a nuclear bomb

I dream in my dreams that instead of a strap-on a hydrogen bomb will stick out of my ass

I know that god will not pour anything into my balls during a handjob

mosquitoes and military pilots meanwhile fly towards the scent of blood

not a single military man gave me flowers

only somewhere in the dark a muscular sergeant said: hey fag suck my dick like before death

what if the ammunition depot where I'm already being fucked by a group of soldiers will explode from the fact that I'm so hot and sexy

suddenly I will destroy the army and piss all the military factories with my blood

suddenly I really will be fucked in a minute by the last soldier in the history of mankind

in the meantime they fuck me in all the cracks and call me a fag

I wonder if the soldiers have wives

I wonder how many lovers smeared the mouths of soldiers' wives with sperm

I wonder how many soldiers kissed their wives on the lips after that

I wonder how many nuclear bombs are produced in secrecy

I would like to grow longer hair and dye it blonde

the truth is hidden in the details of my anus

god fuck us all with your voice

we are tired of the silence of the red buttons

after which a nuclear explosion will follow


after fucking a new nuclear bomb will be born in me [?]


Brown town

In the heart of earthy hues,

Brown town,

A needle threads life's tapestry,

Brown town,

A need, a yearning palpable.

People encircle, form clay figures,

Silent echoes of existence,

Seated, molded by time's unseen hands.

Within, dwell stories untold,

Brown town,

Clay figures poised in quiet contemplation,

Sculpted reflections of shared moments.



my lover asked

my lover asked me when i first saw porn

it would be better if he asked something simpler, like how many times we quarrel with my husband

(sometimes it seems to me that love is too abstract a word for our painfully non-abstract world)

my lover finally pissed me off when he started talking about the non-binary nature of human nature

- I call you bitch to suck and not destroy our homosexual intimacy with the philosophy, fag, - I said to my lover while he turned into a statue

my lover is a beautiful antique statue but alas the statues don't have blood

my professional skills as a bloodsucker are now in question

my lover its: not reacted to my bites and slaps for a day

it seems to me that he sailed away into the cast-iron tunnel of the night

it seems to me that my lover dreams of flowers in ball gowns and without graves

death knocked on the back of the room and asked: whose house is this?

and this ruined house is now a ruin

the anti-missile installation of the heart has failed

the night in the eyes of my dead dead man will no longer dissolve

even explosions won't wake my lover

red sky like a bud revealed death

god's assistant pressed the wrong button again

аll in vain


We

Free

Freends

Friends

French fries

With self burger


We distance

We running

Running away from each other



vegetable garden

my body is a vegetable garden in which nothing grows

we're all hungry without the smell of fresh meat and cum

generals fuck tomorrow's dead for free saving on prostitutes

sun umbrellas and winter sleighs are in vain


sho(r)t (hi)story
I want the last nuclear bomb to explode inside my ass
the sun warms the cold body of my lover shot by dawn
the trenches are screaming but no historian
will tell about our buried feelings in the future
the stones are screaming but only the wind drowning in the river
will tell about our buried lovers

No title
the station of tears breaks out and thirst falls from the inside of the heart
let's go to my house, drink my blood, burst my capillaries, tear my ass, tear out my tonsils
meanwhile god's deputy keeps pushing the wrong buttons

onlyfa
the steak burned inside my stomach
the gun kills me but nothing will come out of my vagina
we drink only sperm
my eggs and balls strive for your grape nipple
still life of the world during the continuous noise of a siren
we drink only tears

one cocku
you drink the silence of my moan
and I feel uneasy about spring
which hasn’t come either

part-time
part-time job
being naked in the pristine ruins of houses

Poetry from Maurizio Brancaleoni

Person's bare feet standing on the beach where the water meets the sand. Orange-red tide, and the person has blue floral-patterned swim shorts.
Haiku by Maurizio Brancaleoni


bagno all'alba:
la scia del sole tra alluce e illice

bathing at dawn —
the sun glitter between hallux and index toe

*

mattino calmo:
un mosaico d'impronte di piccioni

quiet morning —
a mosaic of pigeon footprints

*

luna calante:
vespe e formiche su carcassa di pane

waning moon —
wasps and ants on bread carcass

*

mattina presto:
cammino nei solchi del SUV sulla sabbia

early morning —
I walk in the ruts of the SUV on the sand

*

rough sea —
the cat's lapping
in the plant saucer

mare agitato:
il lappare del gatto
nel sottovaso

*

luna di tre dì:
il pomfo della puntura interrotta

three-day moon —
wheal of the interrupted puncture

*

mare calmo di mattina:
le zampe rosse dei piccioni

calm morning sea —
red feet of the pigeons

*

malato al sole:
le zampe fredde della mosca

ill in the sun —
cold feet of the fly

*

cirrocumuli:
la chiave dell'auto
fa da cotton fioc

cirrocumuli —
the car key
serves as a cotton swab

*

ascelle al vento:
l'insetto non riesce
a rigirarsi

armpits to the wind —
the bug can't
flip back over

*

dopo il mare
anche sporche le mani
sembran pulite

after the seaside
even if dirty
hands feel clean

*

restless wasps —
the lonely old man
from person to person

vespe irrequiete:
il vecchio solo
di persona in persona

*

ora di pranzo:
condizionatore di
sopravvivenza

lunch time —
survival
conditioner

*

notte d'estate:
centro zanzare
mentre il sonno mi elude

summer night —
I hit mosquitoes squarely
while sleep eludes me

*

mese d'agosto:
anche le case rosse
si spelleranno?

August —
will even the red houses
start to peel?

*

niente acqua per
le labbra secche:
lamiere lucenti

no water for
dry lips —
shining floor plates

*

vento in spiaggia:
una mano sul cell
l’altra sull’ombrellone

wind at the seaside —
one hand on the phone
the other on the beach umbrella

*

Pronto soccorso:
la zanzara bruna
non trova l'orecchio

Emergency Room —
the brown mosquito
can't find the ear

*

bocca sdentata:
alcune case senza
tenda da sole

gap-toothed mouth  —
some houses have
no awning

*

vespa vasaia:
una solitudine tranquilla

potter wasp —
a tranquil solitude

*

nascondendosi
nell'orto il gatto
svicola indisturbato

hiding
in the garden the cat
sneaks away undisturbed

*

primi rovesci:
sotto la giacca a vento
la canottiera

first downpours —
under the windbreaker
a tank top


Maurizio Brancaleoni lives near Rome, Italy.

He holds a master's degree in Language and Translation Studies from Sapienza University. His haiku and senryu have appeared in Dadakuku, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Under The Bashō, Horror Senryu Journal, Cold Moon Journal, Scarlet Dragonfly, Memorie di una geisha, Rakuen, Haiku Corner, Pure Haiku, Five Fleas, Shadow Pond Journal, Haikuniverse, Asahi Haikuist, Plum Tree Tavern and Wales Haiku Journal. In 2023 one of his micropoems was nominated for a Touchstone Award, while a horror ku originally featured in the Halloween-themed issue of Scarlet Dragonfly was re-published in this year's Dwarf Stars anthology. 

Maurizio manages “Leisure Spot", a bilingual blog where he posts interviews, reviews and translations: https://leisurespotblog.blogspot.com/p/interviste-e-recensioni-interviews-and.html

Poetry from Kendall Snipper

Gastric Juice

What is a woman if not fluid 

cursed and born bubbling up the esophagus 

meeting fingers at the uvula and spewing

heated siren songs of stomach acid and

torn-up lemon slices and cucumber bile. 


if not trapping and festering life

with eyes of gold and silver-plated teeth,

they cover tobacco stains under lips stapled tight

shrouding their deadbeat heart 

with red right-hand knuckles.


What is a woman if not a frame imagined 

too plump, if not a figure

malnourished from longing, yet so full

from desire, of indentured servitude 

to their own stomach rumbling

with craze and clouded appetite. 


A woman, if not

A sickly yellow vomited like 

a scream amplified 

From the depths of the womb.


Poetry from J.D. Nelson

Five Untitled Monostichs

independence prickly pears at long last

millions of it this bottomless denver

instead of concrete bright yellow bird hank

late eclipse pepper sandwich later

grass lather unless tree & tree

bio/graf

J. D. Nelson is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). His first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.

Poetry from Pat Doyne (one of several)

FEARMONGERING IN SPRINGFIELD

		“In Springfield, they’re eating the dogs!”
		yelled Trump at his TV debate.
		What’s behind these demon tales?
		What fuels such baseless hate?

		It starts with an influx of workers
		back in 2017.
		Springfield factories no longer hummed.
		The town was in decline.

		Then came the Haitian immigrants
		to package food, work shifts
		in automotive machining plants.
		But new faces caused rifts.

		15,000 new faces
		riled up a Nazi group—
		this “Blood Tribe” marched with swastika flags
		and paramilitary troops
		
		to crash a jazz and blues event.
		Pointed guns at cars.
		Shouted, “Go back to Africa!”
		The Blood Tribe was at war.

		A spokesman told the City Council:
		stop hiring workers’ kin.
		“Crime and savagery will increase
		with every Haitian you bring in.”  *

		The speaker got kicked out. Next day,
		Springfield City Hall
		was closed because of bomb threats,
		and a school got threatening calls.

		Then, when a cat went missing,
		the scapegoating began.
		“They say those Haitians eat our pets.”
		Rumors wildly ran.

		Now schools are closed to keep kids safe.
		Bomb threats, fear, and hate
		menace Springfield’s peaceful town.
		Does this make America great?

		* Quote by Drake Berentz, aka, Nathaniel Higgins,
		reported by Stephen Starr in the Guardian, 9/14/2024

Poetry from Deepika Singh

South Asian woman with straight black hair up in a bun behind her head, brown eyes, and a white and pink sari. She's posing in front of a blue wall with a gold design.

In India when a daughter gets married they need to wear a red veil and red bindi on her forehead. It’s a symbol of married women. Also I would like to add that in India we call our mother Maa. Whether it is India or any other country, mother and daughter emotion is same.

THE QUEST

I’m in my autumn my child,

Your father’s departure made my life hollow.

My heart weeps when I recall him.

Now, I am stacked with responsibilities.

My eyes are craving to see you in a red veil.

My lifelong wish to see,

The vibrant red colour on your forehead.

My child, I searched a lot

But the suitable boy is in a remote, untouched land.

Is it my fault that I gave you birth ?

They tarnish our race.

‘Unity in Diversity’ is confined to papers.

They criticize on your shadowy tone,

Your knowledge is your gem,

And they ridicule it too.

Murky world, disgrace your devotion towards me

A devoted son is an honour,

Then why not a devoted daughter?

I begged at every door,

To search a suitable boy for you,

Sad folks always gave false hope.

Me too wish to nurture my grandchild,

Who will sit on my lap,

And I will wrap her tight.

With her, I will revive my childhood.

I asked to God:

Why a dummy smile people,

Enjoying an ecstatic life.

We have wisdom to be simple,

And thus our hearts are distorted every time.

Waiting for the new dawn,

In every verse there are some,

Unspoken silence.

(Answer To Mother…….)

MOSAIC of EMOTIONS

Be good, do good and receive good,

The age old phrase.

In this broken mixed-up world,

Do we always receive fruit ?

I am a scapegoat in the hands of time.

I longed to pass marital bliss.

A hand who will hold my hand,

A soul- soothing warm hug and worries disappear.

I pine for his presence.

Me too wish the paradise of motherhood,

That feeling when I will hold you in my arms, my child,

And embrace you in my chest.

I will play with you like a toddler,

Till we burst out with laughter .

Those precious moments when your grandma will sing a lullaby for you.

I am longing to see.

I hate mirror Maa,

Every time it reminds me of single shaming.

The lines on your forehead write the tales of an agonized mind.

I curse myself Maa to see you in pain,

And knowing the reason is me.

I know you are aching to see the luminous red vermillion on my forehead,

Will it fulfill in this birth?

The voyage for a suitable match is just an illusion.

They abandon me to see my worship towards you .

Pity mother with only daughter in the family.

In her declining years should I leave her all alone?

Can a groom do the same?

Our society is rooted in orthodox ideology,

Which need to be structured.

(Is it so difficult to give her a little space in son -in -law’s nest?)

Deepika Singh is an Indian native from Margherita, Assam. She holds an M.A. and a B.Ed. degree, by profession, a teacher. Her writings are a reflection of the everyday experiences she has. She thinks the correct words have the power to transform our culture. Her works were featured in various publications, including Sipay Journal, The Poet Magazine, Womensweb, Journal of Macedonia Scientific Society, Poetry Zine Magazine, Archer Magazine, etc. Additionally, her writings were translated into Hebrew, Chinese, Macedonian, Spanish, Serbian, Tajik, and Turkish. She also recited poetry on Kent’s BBC Radio.